And Mary Makes Three

A little after Jesus turned three, Mom developed another great bulge in her belly. Mom was positive that her new baby was going to be a girl and that meant that I would become regular Mary and the new baby, little Mary.

Little Mary came into the world amid shouts, grunts, cries and tears of happiness from both Mom and God. Most important to Mom, Little Mary was born in a hospital. There were no snow angels crafted from dirt, drummer boys sitting in highchairs and I didn’t think that our old, family Doctor was going to deliver my little sister on a sectional sofa.

Still, the birth was unique in its own way: it concluded with my little sister Mary crying and breathing in this world.

The Doctors and Nurses thought that I shouldn’t be in the room so while Mom pushed little Mary out I played in the hallway with Grandmother Mary. She had been assigned to watch over me. Grandmother Mary watched Oprah and Grandmother Mary knew how to multitask so while she watched over me in the hall she also prayed the Rosary.

Jesus was home with Aunt Mary. Who was another Mary in this family of Marys.

Grandmother Mary had a dry face full of creases and ridges that was topped with a thick mane of wavy, gray hair. Her spiny fingers curled under like the brittle branches of small trees during winter. She would grasp each bead of that Rosary, one at a time, and whisper a little prayer not much louder than leaves blown across the driveway. With each bead, I imagined that something good came to pass.

I sat on the floor in the waiting room and played with my Polly Pocket toys. “Grandma,” I said while opening a miniature, plastic dollhouse.

The dollhouse packed up into a small suitcase no bigger than a lunch box. It came complete with working gas Westinghouse oven and stove. I told Mom earlier that for my birthday I wanted a new Maytag washer and dryer. The one in the dollhouse knocked while running. It was a nice home for my dolls but the maintenance costs could go through the roof.

“Yes, dear,” Grandmother paused her prayer and looked up from the beads.

“Why are all the girls in our family named Mary?” I asked.

“Well, your Great, Great Grandmother Mary was a wonderful woman. She loved her son, Jesus, very much and did all that God had asked of her even though she knew it would be extremely painful. See, the first Mary understood the prophecies of the scripture well, better than the Pharisees. Mary understood that it was her destiny to bare a son who she would later have to watch be tortured and crucified in order to save mankind. And even knowing this, Mary agreed to give birth to that child and raise him with love. She stood as a symbol of knowledge, power and devotion.”

“But if she was Jesus N.T.’s mom shouldn’t she be my Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmother.”

“Well, actually it would be Great times eighteen. There have been eighteen generations of Marys in our family. Most families trace their lineage through the father, but we have held tight to our blessed mother. And each one of us reminds the people of the world everyday, subtly if by no other way then the mere mention of our name, that it is a wonderful thing to serve God. Some call her the first Mary because we are all her descendants.”

“And she was a strong woman,” I added.

“Most women are strong, Mary. They must be to put up with men,” Grandmother snickered at her own joke. “To affirm what you said, yes, she was a very strong woman.”

Dad came into the waiting room, his eyes glowing like the stars on a dark night. He told us that my little sister had been born and all was well with the baby and our mother. Grandmother Mary looked up from her beads and smiled. Looking at her hands, I noticed that she still had three beads left. She stayed out in the waiting room five minutes longer to conclude her vigil, which had now transformed into a prayer of thanks.

I walked into the room with God’s hand on my shoulder. He was just as happy with Little Mary’s birth as he had been with Jesus Merv’s birth. I thought that he must have been that happy at my birth and it made me feel warm and wanted. I decided that God must be happy at every child’s birth.

Little Mary was pink, wrinkled, wet and looked awfully surprised to be here. Her body was plump and her eyes opened like great big saucers. She didn’t cry, she just glanced around the room in silence. From the look on her face, I think she wanted to be put back.

I looked at my little sister, another life brought into this world, and smiled. I thought life was great.